


Blame

by Res



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-29
Updated: 2005-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 23:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Res/pseuds/Res
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was all Seamus' fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hansbekhart](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hansbekhart).



> Author's Note: This was for the lj community harry_holidays fic exchange. Damn. I really wanted to push this one out into at least R, but Dean got distracted. Hope you like it! ....I may grab this and run with it some more, when the holiday season, job-hunting and family crisises are not breathing down my neck. Adoring thanks to lj user lardencelover for betaing (she TOTALLY rocks), to lj user kaalee and lj user angel423 for ideas when I needed them, and to lj user lauriegilbert and lj user sid for some serious encouragement when the world tried to swallow me whole. It’s because of them that this thing made it out alive.

**  
”Blame”   
**

It was all Seamus' fault, Dean thought, scrubbing angrily at his patch of floor with the stiff bristled brush. His dark hands contrasted sharply with the golden wood and chestnut bristles, the nearly black skin shining wetly as he dunked the brush into the bucket beside him, splashing pearlescent bubbles everywhere before he resumed the brisk, irritated strokes across the mica-silvered flagstones. All Seamus' fault! If Seamus hadn't -- if he'd only -- And why the hell had he, Dean, gone along with it, anyway?!

Furiously, he plunked the brush into the bucket again, yanked it out and slapped it onto the flagstones, ignoring how the foam flew, splattering like snowflakes onto the black cloth of his robe and across the silvered floor around him. _Why_ had he gone along with it, anyway?

He pondered that for a long moment, rocking back and forth on his knees as he scrubbed. Why _had_ he gone along with it? ...that, he decided, had to be Padma's fault. He considered the idea for several more moments, working it from several angles, echoing his thoughts with the actions of his brush around a dark stain on the flags. It had to be Padma's fault, he thought, scrubbing hard along the right edge of the gooey brown stain, because she was the one who'd started him thinking about Seamus' hair. If she'd not made such a blatantly erroneous statement, he'd never have had to double-check so closely, and if he'd not needed to check so closely, he'd never have touched Seamus' hair. I mean, really!

Dean shifted to scrub at the left side of the stain, sloshing translucent bubbles across it and turning the stain from a dull beige into a glistening mix of bronze, scarlet and muddy green. It was perfectly ridiculous to say Seamus had 'lovely brown hair', when any idiot could see it wasn't brown at all! Indeed -- so far as he could tell, there wasn't a bit of 'brown' anywhere in the shaggy mop. Gold, yes; and bronze. And amber, honey, a bit of copper, a few strands of a brandy-sort of colour. Some true carroty-red when he'd been in the sun, but Dean didn't really count that as it only showed up in the first part of the school year, after Seamus had spent the whole of the summer out of doors. He'd even found, on closer inspection, a little bit of chocolate, and some deep chestnut strands mixed into the bunch. But no 'brown' -- and he'd checked. That was what had lead to this mess! If Padma hadn't made such a perfectly ridiculous comment, he'd never have had to double-check so closely. And if he hadn't had to double-check so closely, he'd never have put his hand out, touched Seamus' hair. If he hadn't touched it (which had taken a bit of explaining itself at the time!), he'd never, _ever_ have been so distracted by the shine of it in the sunlight -- the remembered feel of it under his fingers -- that he hadn't really heard what mischief Seamus was planning. And if he'd actually _heard_ what Seamus had been planning to do -- well, he _never_ would have gone along with it!

Definitely not.

However, as it was, he _had_ been distracted (absolutely Padma's fault!) by thoughts of Seamus' hair (Lord, it was soft -- softer than anything! -- and so sleek to the touch…. And the way it shone in the torchlight, turning all honey and amber…) and he _had_ agreed to go along with what ever it was Seamus had proposed.

And, of course, it had gone wrong. _That_ was most definitely _Seamus'_ fault. And, therefore, it was also Seamus' fault that they'd ended up squashed together in that closet. Because if they hadn't ended up squashed together in that closet, he never would have noticed the delightfully striking contrast between his skin and Seamus' in that half light, and if he hadn't noticed it, he wouldn't have leaned closer to get a better look -- and he wouldn't have noticed how long Seamus' eyelashes were.  
Dean paused. Where had that thought come from? He frowned down at the stain, then shook his head and plunked the brush back into the bucket, slopping more water on the flagstones. He _hadn't_ noticed how long Seamus' eyelashes were. Or, well, not while he was in the closet. Now that he thought about it, though, Seamus did have extraordinarily long eyelashes, and they were in all the cinnamon and gold colours of his hair as well.

He paused again, then frowned and yanked his attention back to the _important_ matter. What was it? Oh, yes, right. Seamus’ fault. The whole thing. If Seamus hadn’t been so loud, they wouldn’t have had to run and hide. If they hadn’t had to run and hide, he _never_ would have yanked Seamus into that closet, and they wouldn’t have ended up squashed together like that, and he wouldn’t have noticed the stunning contrast between his own skin and Seamus’ (and it really was an amazing contrast -- the half light in the closet had turned Seamus’ skin the golden cream shade of old ivory or sweet buttercream, gleaming slightly in the light, the long sweep of his throat shining in the darkness around them, appearing almost soft to the touch…the hard ridge of tendon sliding down Seamus’ throat to his own hand, dark, black in the shadows, pressed against Seamus’ collarbone, fisted into his shirt and pulling it askew, a warm sienna glow rising from where the light caught on the rise and curl of his hand against the pulse of the Irish boy’s throat….), and if he hadn’t noticed the contrast he certainly never would have leant closer for a better look.

And it was also Seamus’ fault for turning his head at just that exact moment. He, Dean, had certainly not done anything to warrant Seamus turning to look at him at exactly that second, and so it was _entirely_ not his fault they’d --

“Bloody hell!” He cursed as his elbow hit the bucket, splashing water all over himself and the floor. His voice echoed around the hall, bouncing off the ceiling, springing from the walls and zipping back at him from the far end of the hall, merrily setting up a deep chime of tones ricocheting into silence.

With a sigh, he looked down at the flags, noting how the wet stones seemed to shine, the colours deepening and dividing, bringing out moss greens and creamy slate grays hidden in the scuffed flooring, the water adding a polish normally lacking. Intrigued, he splashed a bit more water, scrubbing more stones, noting how this one's reds came out, going brick and terra cotta and sand, while that one turned into shades of pewter and silver and dove gray. Splashing again, scrubbing, he lost himself identifying each colour, forcing his mind into concentrating on his task, hoping if he could just get through it, the detention would be over and done with and he could go back to his dorm and sleep. He wondered how Seamus was doing in his own detention -- not that he was particularly concerned, of course. He just hoped Seamus' detention was at least as nasty as his own, considering it had been Seamus' fault they'd got caught. It was, after all, Seamus' hand that had hit the door and shoved it open just as Professor Snape had come storming past.

It wasn't his fault that they'd been so distracted it had taken a good minute or so for them to notice Snape glaring in at them. Really, it hadn't. He hadn't started it, and if he had wanted to finish it, well, that was only natural, wasn't it? Especially since Seamus had tasted _so good_. All cloves and honey and something that he'd not had a chance to identify before Snape had taken them both by the scruffs of the neck and yanked them out of the closet with a snarl.

....it hadn't helped that they'd both broken into fits of giggles when they had finally gotten a clear look at the Professor, either. Really, he hadn't meant to laugh, but -- he'd never have guessed Snape would have looked so good in bubblegum pink hair. Quite amazing, really, how well the colour suited his pale skin and dark eyes. It had shimmered and sparkled like pink candy floss in the torchlight, streaks of carnation and flamingo catching the light and shining against a chiffon and pale coral base.

Snape, however, apparently didn't think it was such a good look and had immediately assigned them both detentions -- which was completely unfair, Dean felt, considering the entire thing was Seamus' fault.

Right up to and including the kiss.

.....next time, however, Dean intended the kiss to be his own fault, and he'd make certain it didn't end in detention.


End file.
